


christmas is the most joyful time of the year

by apollothyme



Category: James Bond (Movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Christmas, M/M, Winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-24
Updated: 2012-12-24
Packaged: 2017-11-22 06:16:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/606721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apollothyme/pseuds/apollothyme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This all leads to the present moment at piss a.m. on Christmas morning, in which Q is sitting alone in his standardized apartment drinking tea and watching rubbish commercials on TV.</p>
            </blockquote>





	christmas is the most joyful time of the year

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is a bit too late but what can I say, inspiration strikes at odd times. For my dear friend [Becca](http://elenafishers.tumblr.com/), who is a kickass writer and shares the same ships as me and is a fantastic friend.

This thing that they’ve got, it’s not really a thing. It doesn’t have a name or a definition, hell, it doesn’t have much of anything besides them when it comes down to it.  
  
It’s just them. A secret agent for the british government and his quartermaster. A quartermaster working on the newest technology for the battle lines and his assigned agent. They both belong to one another, just like they both belong to no one.  
  
Bond is used to spending Christmas alone. From time to time, when he’s feeling a bit more lonely or when he’s so far away from home that the ache in his chest can’t be drowned by alcohol, he finds a warm body and an inviting smile to keep him company. It’s never real, it’s never what he truly wants, but it’s as close as it gets.  
  
For a while he had Vesper, but those are the key words. ‘For a while’. They never got to spend Christmas together. The world is funny that way.  
  
Q is not used to anything yet. He’s too young to be used to a pattern of loneliness. He used to spend Christmas with his family when he was a kid, but he hasn’t seen them in a while now and he doesn’t plan on inviting them for a cup of tea anytime soon either. During his university years he spent Christmas with whoever was around. It was never a big deal, just another stupid excuse to waste money and wear ridiculous clothes.  
  
And yet, there was still something, there always is, something that made Christmas an anticipated time of the year for Q no matter how much he tried to fight it.  
  
See, he kind of liked Christmas. He didn’t want to like it, but he had to admit that it was a good enough reason to drink eggnog, avoid being responsible and be around other people. Q might be a social introvert, but he’s no hermit. He enjoys other people’s company as long as it’s limited and temporary.  
  
This year though, he’s all alone.  
  
He didn’t expect to be, if he’s honest. He thought that he and Bond could have spent it together. It was silly of him, stupid really. He hadn’t been given any reasons to believe in his flimsy, little theory. As human and inaccurate as it might sound, Q let his heart get the best of him and it stung. Badly.  
  
He’d believed that the man who he’s been sexually involved with for the past couple of months would have wanted to spend some time with him. He’d been dumb. After all, no matter how Q might feel, for all he knows he’s just another meaningless fuck to Bond. The agent certainly has a track record indicating as such.  
  
It’s more embarrassing than it is painful, although not by much. To think that he’d allowed himself to think and dream and even act without listening to the rational side of his brain is ridiculing in so many different ways Q wants to avoid thinking about.  
  
He’d bought a bloody Christmas tree, for god’s sake. It’s fake and smells too much of plastic, but it has tinfoil all around it and it’s decorated with tiny, old gadgets Q knew would get a laugh out of Bond and it’s a joke, is what it is.  
  
It’s all one hell of a messed up joke.  
  
He’d bought it one week in advance and decorated it one saturday morning, when the sun wasn’t quite up yet and the frost on his windows made him feel homesick for no good reason. Later that day he got the email telling him about a new mission for Bond down in Kenya. It wasn’t a big ordeal, just some politicians being their usual useless selves.  
  
Q had thought - no, fuck, he’d believed - Bond was going refuse the mission, or at least postpone it. There was no practical reason for him to accept it. It wasn’t an urgent situation, there weren’t any life or death schemes happening, no reason for one of MI6’s best agents to accept going to Kenya at such a short notice during Christmas. But Bond, he’s unpredictable, it’s one of the things that makes him such a brilliant agent.  
  
Or maybe Q is just foolish and presumptuous. Either way it didn’t matter because that was that, wasn’t it?  
  
It wasn’t his job to tell Bond what to do, not like that anyway. If the man wanted to go to Africa, Q couldn’t do a damn thing to stop him. He didn’t want to either, the pain of rejection hurt enough as it did.  
  
All of this leads to the present moment at piss a.m. on Christmas morning, in which Q is sitting alone in his standardized apartment drinking tea and watching rubbish on TV. He had wanted to stay at work, maybe try to catch up on some of his side-projects or upgrade the already maximum level security system. If there’s one thing that will never end and will always be there to occupy his mind, it’s work.  
  
In the end though, he knew that the temptation to check on Bond, who’s currently waiting for the next part of his assignment and not under any threats or in any sort of danger (not caused by himself), would be too much for him to ignore.  
  
Also, he didn’t want to be that guy. The one with nowhere to go or no one to go to, who Q unfortunately is but doesn’t want to admit he is. He feels pathetic enough as it is, no need to add to the sentiment.  
  
He isn’t expecting any company; the flicker of hope that someone (with dirty blonde hair and a crooked smirk and light blue eyes) is going to knock on his door and make his day (week, month, year) died during the thirty minutes long infomercial for kung fu lessons, also known as the universal sign to go the fuck to sleep.  
  
Regardless, before Q can go to the valley of bitter dreams and harsh sheets there’s a knock on his door. Three thumps against the wood in a rhythmic succession.  
  
The first thing Q says after he opens the door is, “Aren’t you supposed to be in Kenya?” he doesn’t have to look to know it’s Bond, but he does anyway and there he is, the man every father warned his daughter about. Such a shame nobody warned the sons.  
  
Bond flashes him that annoying crooked grin of his, the one he uses when he knows something everybody else doesn’t, which is probably all the freaking time for the amount of times Q has seen the grin since he’s met Bond. “Aren’t you going to invite me in?” he asks, avoiding the question or maybe simply delaying it. It’s hard to tell.  
  
He looks like he’s just been through hell, Q thinks as he takes in Bond’s disgruntled appearance. His hair is a mess, he looks like he hasn’t seen a shower stall in days and his clothes have dirt all over. Still, at least there are no gushing wounds or visible blood stains. It’s a definite improvement from how Bond usually looks after a mission.  
  
“What happened to you?”  
  
“Finding a ride back home was more difficult than I expected,” he says without a trace of irony. That’s new, with Bond there’s always irony even when there’s no reason for there to be irony. Q doesn’t judge him for that, sarcasm can be a lifesaver.  
  
He gives Q a little push without any sort of aggressive or sexual connotations behind it, just a friendly reminder that hey, we’re still in your doorway, can we get in now, please?  
  
“You’ve got a Christmas tree,” Bond says after they sit on the couch. He’s so nonchalant about it, like none of this is a big deal, like they’re just pals hanging out and Bond is supposed to be there and not in Africa.  
  
Q wonders if things would be better if they were that simple, if they were nothing more than ‘just pals’. Probably, but it’s too late to do anything about it now. He knows what it feels like to have those arms gripping his hips and the taste of Bond’s skin on the tip of tongue and he doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to forget it.  
  
“What are you doing here, James?” The name feels foreign as it passes Q’s lips despite having been used a handful of times now. He reckons it’s just one of those things that will never grow old.  
  
“It’s Christmas.”  
  
“So? You don’t care about Christmas.”  
  
“No, but you do,” Q has never been more grateful for his apartment’s shoddy lighting than he is now with a mocking blush threatening to cover his cheeks in scarlet red.  
  
The next question comes out of its own volition, desperate curiosity getting the best of Q’s willpower. “Why did you accept the mission?”  
  
“I had to.”  
  
“No, you didn’t.”  
  
They’re playing a game of cats and rats, chasing each other with questions after questions and not enough answers. It’s typical; it’s expected. They’ve been trained to be like this.  
  
“I’m sorry," Bond says and there’s more there, more that he isn’t saying, but Q is tired. He’s been awake for far too long and Bond has got a warm hand on top of his thigh, moving it softly as he leans down to kiss a birthmark on Q’s neck and the rest of the questions can wait, Q would rather enjoy his Christmas gift now.


End file.
